BEGINNINGS: The Awakening
by SamIAm4
Summary: Exploring the characters' separate lives previous to the series. Focuses on their struggles to come to grips with their respective situations, as well as the trust-building which takes place between them as they come together to form a team.
1. Freaky Foster Kid

**Official Disclaimer****:  This is and only will be fan fiction.  It was written for the sole purpose of bringing pleasure to people who were fans of the TV show, Birds of Prey.  I have absolutely no intention of publishing it or profiting by it.  I don't even have any intention of taking credit for it, which is why I choose to write under a pseudonym.  I was merely intrigued by the possibilities of this rich story line and wanted to play around with some of them, in the company of other like-minded individuals.   I write this only for the sheer joy of making—or attempting to make--the characters come alive on the page.  I share it only because, finding so much pleasure in reading others' Birds of Prey stories, I wished to give something back.    **

**This is my very first attempt at fan fiction.  It is my understanding that as long as I write the disclaimer and don't profit from it, this is legal.  If this is not the case, please, by all means, let me know, and I will remove this document immediately.  It is most definitely not my intention to plagiarize or infringe copyright laws.  **

**All of the characters and story lines and everything else I can think of are the property of DC comics and the WB network.  The only bits that're mine are the words and the voice.    **

**Additional disclaimer:  **_I realize that some of this may deviate from both the DC comics and the TV show, though I tried to be as true to both as I could, given that I really haven't read Batman comics until now. (I've been surfing around on the internet trying to glean as much info as possible so I didn't make too many mistakes—but mistakes are going to be inevitable)  Mostly, I'm just having fun.   I wanted to explore the characters' separate lives previous to the series and their coming together to form a team. I also wanted to explore some of the difficulties the various characters would have had with learning to trust each other and work together as well as with coming to grips with their respective situations.   Specifically, this story will deviate from the plot of the WB pilot as well as possibly rearrange some of the episodes—that is, if it gets that far.  If it bothers you, don't look!  _

__

**One more thing:  **_There's a bit of mild swearing for emphasis, and the f-word shows up once, because it fit there.  If this offends you, I just wanted you to be forewarned._

And also:  It's going to be way long.  Not unlike this disclaimer.  More of a serial than a story, really:  Lots of entwined threads.  Patience is a virtue.  

Additionally:  This story was not intended to be eaten or inhaled.  In case of accidental ingestion, please contact your nearest poison control center immediately.

**And a note to reviewers:**  If you don't like something, don't chew my butt.  I'm sensitive—artistic temperament and all…you know.  Point it out in a nice way.  Oh, and I already know the first chapter is too long and too passive.  I needed to set the stage.  I got tired of trying to fix it, so I'm just posting it this way.  Subsequent chapters will be much shorter and more active.    

**That said, here's the story.  Enjoy!**

Chapter 1:  Freaky Foster Kid

            The little dormer window in the attic was Dinah's favorite place to sit and read.  Here, she could snuggle cozily in a nest made of two mattresses, a blanket, and several pillows, behind a pile of attic storage consisting of two large, uncomfortable, overstuffed chairs, a tall chest of drawers, two blanket chests, and an old, folding crib.  As long as she remained quiet, she was almost completely hidden from anyone who might happen to come up to the attic.  With any luck, she might be left in peace to read for several hours before someone thought to look for her.   

            Reading was one of the great loves of Dinah's life.  She read stories the way some people used drugs.  It was her escape, her place to go when life seemed too difficult or painful.  Immersed in a book character's cares and worries and adventures, she could, for awhile, escape her own world, living the life of another for several brief, happy moments. Fantasy and science fiction were her genres of choice.  The epic clashes between the forces of good and the forces of evil stirred something fundamental in the depths of her soul, and she fiercely longed to forge a sword or step through a warp in the fabric of time and space and join the battle.  

_            :: Go get Dinah and tell her it's her turn to set the table.  ::_

            The sound of her name intruded.  Funny, how you could tune out absolutely everything else and still hear your own name.  The cheap transistor radio crackled, and once again, in the background, she could hear her name being called.

            _:: Dinah! ::_

_            :: Where is she?::_

_            :: Probably off with her nose in a book somewhere.  Did you check the barn?::_

_            :: Dinah!  Mom wants you to set the table! ::_

            So far, no one had figured out that this was where Dinah hid to read or think.   Young as she was, she already understood the wisdom of not over-using a good thing.  She did not frequent her secret lair often enough to raise the question, "where _does_ she disappear to all the time," and she _never_, no matter how tempting it might be, hid there to get out of chores or when she was in trouble.  Trouble, she had learned through sorry experience, was better faced straight on—if trouble had to hunt you down, it usually left you in a world of hurt, and the anticipation of it made it ten times worse than it was already. 

            Besides, any unfortunate things that might be in store for her would pale by comparison to having her secret lair discovered and taken away.  Dinah took care never to allow for the possibility of that to happen.  With the help of a how-to book smuggled from the library, she had managed to rig several radio-controlled "bugs" in different locations throughout the house, and she always kept one ear out for the sound of someone calling her.  At the slightest hint that she was wanted, Dinah was quick to slip unnoticed through the trap-door in the ceiling of one of the third floor closets and through one of the adjoining rooms and passages to emerge in a different location in the large old house. 

            Gracefully swinging down through the trap door, Dinah made sure to grab one of the books she had stashed there—books appropriate for someone who could read on a fifth or sixth grade level.  She loved these books, but she could also read most of them cover to cover within half an hour.  Although only eleven, Dinah already possessed the ability and comprehension to read on at least a twelfth grade level, understanding not only the words, but the meanings as well.  It was an ability she had learned to downplay whenever possible.  No one, she had found, had much appreciation for someone who was, as Teresa, one of her many foster parents, had put it, "too big for her britches."  

            Just now, in her attic hideaway, she had been happily immersed in Madeleine L'Engle's A Wind In The Door, the sequel to A Wrinkle in Time, which she had found in the library and devoured a couple of days before.  She had never met a book character with whom she could identify as much as she did with Charles Wallace Murray.  She understood his struggle to adapt himself to the ordinary world while at the same time trying to remain true to who he was.  It was her struggle, too, and, like Charles Wallace, she didn't seem to be having too much luck in finding a balance.   

            She opened the closet door a crack and peered out.  This crawl-hole had at one time been the only way to get into the attic, until someone had added a staircase at the end of the hallway.  Now, it had been completely forgotten.  Dinah never used the staircase—if someone were to see her, the attic would be the first place they'd look the next time someone wanted her.  

            The coast was clear.  She stepped quickly out of the closet and headed downstairs, book in hand.

            "There you are, Freak.  Mom wants you to set the table."

            "I know.  I heard you calling."

            "You could have answered."

            "Sorry."  _Not_

            "Where were you, anyway?"

            "Reading."  She held up the book as she spoke.  It was true as far as it went.

            "What a little misfit.  Don't you ever do anything normal?"

            Dinah ignored that.  Responding to it would just give Samantha the satisfaction of knowing she'd hit a nerve.  She hated that Samantha always made fun of her because she liked to read and play chess, did ballet and gymnastics, and knew her way around a computer.  And, God, did she ever hate being called a freak.  She hated Samantha.  That girl had a mean streak the size of Texas.  Too bad they were in the same grade at school.            

            She had only fairly recently come here to live with Wayne and Beth Redmond and their three children in Opal, Missouri, a small town nearby to Kansas City.  Before that, she had been shuttled from foster home to foster home in Kansas City and its neighboring small towns.  Some of the families she'd stayed with had been pretty nice, and there had always been the hope that it might become a more permanent arrangement…but inevitably, after a few months, no matter how hard she tried to hide it, her secret would surface, and they'd freak out and request to have Dinah removed from their household.  Once again, Dinah would be wrenched away from the life that she was beginning to settle into and would be forced to begin again the process of learning to adjust to a new family, new school, new friends, new rules…

            She figured that it would be no different, here.  She tried not to let on that she cared.  At eleven, Dinah already possessed an ability to mask her insecurity and intense fears of rejection under an exterior aura of calm, cheerful acceptance of events and circumstances.  Only someone who knew her well enough to know what to look for and who had an eye for the looking could detect the depths of loneliness and fear within her soul.  Nobody knew her that well.  No one.       

            Dinah sighed.  In all fairness, she couldn't blame people for being freaked out.  She freaked herself out.  Obviously she wasn't normal.  If she were a foster parent, she wouldn't want a freak like herself around her own children, either.  Even her own mother hadn't wanted her around.  Could you blame her?  She was one weird kid.  

            The problem was…sometimes, Dinah dreamed things that came true.   

            The dreams had started when she'd still been living in Sedalia with Teresa and Bill, with that series of dreams about the strange man dressed as a bat, and the young masked man and woman who fought at his side saving helpless people from criminals in a big city.  Dinah hadn't thought for a moment they'd been true—just stirring, in a strange sort of way.  She'd been about nine at the time they'd started.  They'd been different than normal dreams in several ways:  They'd always been vivid and straightforward, with none of that vague, mixed-up dream sense where you're in, for instance, your living room, only it's really a church, and Frank is playing golf, only it's Joel, and he's a wolf.  She'd also had the sense of being present only as an observer—not in any way a participant.  

            She had additionally felt a strange sense of connection, particularly with the young woman, almost as though she, Dinah, were also a part of that team.  It had made her want to be a part of it, to learn to fight, and to help the helpless.  She hadn't told anyone about the dreams—they'd been just dreams, after all—but around the schoolyard, she had begun to stand up for smaller kids who were being picked on.  After about five or six fights, all of which Dinah had won, there'd been a parent conference with Teresa and Bill, her foster parents at the time, followed by a lot of meetings with the school counselor.  The counselor had concluded that Dinah's "aggressive behavior" was due to "abandonment issues", and that Dinah would benefit from more structure and discipline in her life.  After that, Dinah's after-school time had been taken up completely by sports:  gymnastics, swimming, and ballet.  Dinah's career as a hero had been shortlived. 

            Dinah had then begun to have other intense dreams with the same characteristics—vivid imagery, straightforward story line, and a sense of being an observer.  These dreams, as unbelievable as it seemed, had then begun to come true.  It had really freaked her out.

            Most often, it had seemed that she was dreaming things that were happening in the present—only in situations which she should have had no idea about.  Once in awhile, she also dreamed things that had happened in the past, seeing things which had happened to people in days, years, or even centuries previously.  A couple of times—and this had been really freaky—she had even dreamed about things before they had actually happened.  Most of those dreams—the future ones—had seemed to be warnings, and usually involved animals…For the life of her, Dinah hadn't a clue as to why that would be.   

            The first dream had been one of the freaky future ones:  One night, Dinah had dreamed that the family dog was run over.  Two days later, it had happened, in the same place, in the same way.  Shaken, Dinah had informed Teresa, her foster mother.  Worn out from the labors of raising two foster kids plus three of her own, Teresa had ignored her.  The second time, Dinah'd had a dream about the past that turned out to have happened.  Teresa had scolded her for making things up.  

            The third time, Dinah had been home sick with the flu and during a nap had dreamed that Bill had lost his job.  She had told Teresa, who had rolled her eyes and laughed, "Nonsense—that job is incredibly secure."  When Bill had arrived home that evening to break the bad news of his layoff, Teresa had fainted.  Teresa and Bill had become anxious after that, and had told Dinah that her stories had better stop.  The fourth time, when Dinah had dreamed an accident which had taken place fourteen years in the past, and had insisted she knew true story, which differed significantly from the one everyone had been told, Bill had taken a belt to her.  Teresa and Bill had threatened to send her away if it kept up.        

            And then…she'd had the nightmares.

_A black car waits by the side of the road, as a woman and a young, fifteen year old girl step from a bus at the corner.  The dark-haired girl is chattering, her vivid blue eyes sparkling mischievously as she details a prank which she had pulled on a friend earlier.  The laughing woman drapes her arm affectionately around the girl's shoulders as she leans in to hear the particulars.  Looking on, Dinah feels a twinge of envy.   _

_As the two stroll along through the softly falling snow, the car door opens and a figure steps out.  The woman glances up, stiffens… "Run!"  she hisses, giving the girl a shove.  The young girl hesitates.  "Go—I mean it!  Now!"  The girl runs into a nearby alley.  The woman follows.  The girl makes a leap—three stories up to the landing of a fire-escape.  She glances back, uncertain.  "Keep going!"  the woman hisses, "So help me, if you dare follow me, you will get it when this is over!  Understand?"  The girl nods, reluctant, yet obedient, then makes another leap, and lands on the roof of the six-story apartment building.  The woman continues to run down the alley, drawing their pursuer away from the girl, who watches from the rooftop.  In and out of alleys, the woman leads him, finally scaling a wall and running across a low roof, dropping down into the alley on the other side to catch her breath.  _

_Suddenly, the girl's voice rings out:  "MAMA!"  The woman snaps to attention too late.  A shot rings out.  The woman falls.  Her killer walks toward her with agonizing slowness and nudges her with a toe.  She groans.  The masked figure points the gun at her head and pulls the trigger as the girl screams.   The figure straightens and hurries away, as the girl leaps from the building and rushes, sobbing, to her mother's side.  _

            Dinah's screams had woken her up.  When Teresa had finally gotten her calm again and Dinah had dropped off to sleep, she'd had the second of the nightmares.  

_A young, red haired woman of about twenty-six relaxes by the fire with a glass of wine and a book.  Soft piano music plays, and the woman stretches her feet toward the fire and sighs as a soft knock sounds at the door.  Reluctantly, the woman places a bookmark between the pages and walks to the door, peering through the peephole.  _

_Suddenly, a bullet bursts through the door, entering the woman's abdomen.  As she slumps to the floor, a second shot breaks the lock, and the door bursts open, revealing an evil, grinning face.  The man laughs evilly, as he softly closes the door, and his malevolent, chilling laughter continues as he grasps her wrists and drags her, struggling feebly, toward the fireplace.  He picks up the glass of wine and sips it, leering.  "A romantic evening by the fire," he jeers, "What a perfect end to your life!"   _  

            Teresa's voice had penetrated, releasing her from the nightmare, "Dinah…wake up, for God's sake…you're dreaming again."   She'd seemed irritated, "It's the second time, tonight.  I don't know how much more of this I can put up with."  

            Dinah had sat up, gulping greedily from the glass of water Teresa offered her.  "The smiling man…he shot her.  He's going to hurt her."  

            Teresa had rolled her eyes and taken the empty glass, "It's a nightmare.  It's not real.  Go back to sleep."

            "It is real," Dinah had insisted, "It happened—it's happening."  

            The hard slap across her mouth had taken Dinah completely by surprise.  "I told you to stop that nonsense.  It's a dream—nothing more."  Rising abruptly, Teresa had strode across the room, and snapped off the light.  "I don't want to hear another peep out of you.  Next time, I'm sending Bill in here with the belt."  

            Dinah had lay back down and quietly cried herself to sleep.

            The following day, she had glimpsed the front page of the New Gotham Gazette:  POLICE COMMISSIONER'S DAUGHTER VICTIM OF HOME INVASION.  Underneath the headline had been a picture of the red-haired woman.  Before she'd had a chance to read any of the story, Bill had taken the paper from her.  When Dinah had begged to see it, had tried to explain that this was the woman from her dream, he'd whipped her with his belt harder than she'd ever been whipped before and sent her to her room.  Dinah had sobbed for hours—not because of the whipping, though it left welts on her legs that stung for a long time afterward, but because she so desperately wanted to know if the woman was all right.  She couldn't shake her sense of connection with either her or the girl.  From then on, every night when she said her prayers, she asked God to watch over not only her mother, but also the red-haired woman and the jumping girl.      

            After that, the people from the Department of Children and Family Services had come to take her away, and she'd gone to live with various foster families for a few months at a time for the next couple of years, before she'd finally come to live with Wayne and Beth Redmond.  She had been removed from one of the homes after four months, because her foster father, Darrell, had turned out to be a heavy drinker who turned mean and abusive when he was drunk.  A teacher had noticed the bruises and the raw burns on her arm where he'd held a lit cigarette to her.  She probably owed her life—or at least her sanity—to that teacher.  The bastard was in jail, now.  

            All of the other families she'd been placed with had been terrific—warm, caring people who had wanted to take in foster children out of kindness.  Each time, she had desperately wanted to stay with them, to be loved by them.  All of those situations had fallen through because of Dinah and her freaky, stupid dreams.  She couldn't help dreaming things that ended up coming true, and a lot of times, it had been suspected that she had caused the events which had happened.  The families had been kind, but they'd feared for their own children.  She'd been removed from the Ellsworths' after she'd known too much about a fire which had been started at the school.  She'd been removed from the Ames family after she'd warned them that their two cats were going to be poisoned, and they were.  She'd been removed from the Thompson family when she had kept knowing things which had been family secrets for years.  The list went on.   She'd lived with nine different families during that two-year period.  

            DCFS had finally placed her with the Redmonds because Wayne and Beth were no-nonsense types with a firm hand, the sort of people who wouldn't put up with Dinah's lies and acting out behavior.  Before Dinah's arrival, Wayne and Beth had been warned by her caseworker that Dinah was aggressive and belligerent and sorely in need of discipline and structure.  Since Wayne and Beth ran a strict household and had three seemingly well-behaved children, one of whom was Dinah's exact age, they seemed as though they would be the perfect foster parents for such a troubled child.  

            It had become clear to Dinah that she would not find affection and acceptance in this household.  Right off, Wayne and Beth had laid down the law:  She, like the other kids, was expected to do one-half hour of chores each day and two on Saturdays and Sundays.  Any extra spending money, she was expected to earn, herself.  She was expected to participate in organized sports or activities every day after school, as the DCFS counselor had suggested.  They would not put up with lies, laziness, academic slacking, or trouble of any kind.  Dinah had been shown a cruel-looking quirt which hung on the back of the door separating the kitchen from the dining room, and it had been emphasized that they would not hesitate to use it if she stepped out of line.  

            Yearning desperately to be loved and understood, Dinah's sensitive spirit had been dreadfully wounded by the tone they had taken with her.  She hadn't even had a chance to make an impression or allow them to learn to know and love her.  They'd made up their minds about her before they'd even seen her.  She'd retreated within herself, immersing herself more and more in her books and her daydreams.  She spent countless happy hours imagining for herself a loving family filled with laughter and joy.  In her dream world, she had a mother who listened to her and understood her and who tucked her in at night and hugged her when she was sad.  Her dream father played games with her and protected her and made jokes to make her feel better.  She also dreamed for herself several  brothers and sisters who were also smart and liked reading and chess and music and ballet, and who didn't mind that her dreams came true, and who stuck up for her when people picked on her.  In her own little world, peace and happiness reigned.       

            Real life was nothing like her daydreams—that was for certain.  She'd gotten off to a rocky start with this family, and it didn't look like things were going to improve anytime soon.  About a month after Dinah had arrived, the dreams had made a problem once again.  

            This time, she'd dreamed that she was cleaning out one of the horse stalls, when an unfamiliar, white cat with black ears had come into the stall.  In the dream, she had coaxed the cat to her and was stroking it, when a fire started in the barn.  Dinah loved animals, especially horses, and the thought of anything happening to them made her ill.  She thought she was doing the Redmonds a favor by warning them.  She really shouldn't have been so unprepared for their reaction, she'd thought, later.  Wayne had leaned threateningly across the breakfast table, his face inches from hers.  "You had better not even think of setting fire to that barn."  

            Three days later, while Dinah was cleaning out one of the stalls, she'd looked up to see the black-eared cat.  She'd known better than to run to the house for help.  Who would have believed her?  She could just see herself trying to explain:  "There's a cat with black ears!  Quick!  Get the hose!"  Instead, she had quickly released all of the animals from their stalls and chased them out of the barn.  

            She'd then gone looking for the fire, which was only just then starting to catch.  Someone (Dirk and Kenneth, her foster brothers, she suspected) had tossed a live cigarette butt on the ground just behind the barn, and it had caught some straw bales, which were piled against the back of the barn, on fire.  Screaming for help, Dinah had taken a pitchfork and started to try to pull the now flaming bales away from the barn.  Fortunately, several people had heard her and come running, and between them, they had managed to get the straw pulled away from the barn and put out the flames licking up the back wall before it had time to do any damage to the rest of the barn.  Only the corner stall had sustained any damage.   

            There was never any doubt in anyone's mind that the cigarette butts found in the vicinity had been Dinah's.  Wayne and Beth, however, sustained quite a bit of doubt that the fire had caught accidentally.  The girl had, after all, practically announced her intentions at the breakfast table just the other day—and hadn't she made sure to get the animals out of the barn, first?  Without another word, Wayne had marched her to the house and taught her a lesson.  

            Actually, she'd learned several lessons.  She'd learned that a whipping with a quirt hurts a whole lot worse than a whipping with a belt.  She'd also learned that trying to explain about her dreams would only get her locked in a dark, musty basement closet until she "was ready to tell the truth."  What's more, she'd learned the hardest lesson of all:  she was alone; completely, utterly alone.  She was a freak, a misfit, and no normal person would ever be able to understand her, or even want to make the effort to try.       

            After that, Dinah had made up her mind to keep her dreams to herself.  She wasn't stupid, after all.  She might be a freak, but she didn't have to go around advertising it to everyone.      


	2. News

**All of the characters and story lines and everything else I can think of are the property of DC comics and the WB network.  The only bits that're mine are the words and the voice.    **

**Chapter 2:  News**

            Softly, at the very edge of her hearing, Barbara became gradually aware of the constant muted beeping of a machine.  It was somewhat annoying, but not so much so that she felt the need to open her eyes.  A rustle of clothing betrayed the presence of a person nearby.  There was a clicking sound.  The beeping stopped, and the rustle faded away, as though the person had quietly left.  There was a murmur of voices some distance away, and closer at hand, she heard the whisper-light rustle of a turning page.  Barbara stirred and sighed and started to drop back into sleep when it occurred to her that her bedroom smelled wrong—a mixture of antiseptic and bleached linen and several other things she couldn't identify…and why was someone in her room?  Startled, she opened her eyes.

            _Where the hell am I?_

            "You're in the hospital, Barbara.  You're all right…you're safe.  It's going to be okay."  Dick's voice was low and reassuring, the same coaxing, quiet tone he always took with frightened animals or children who had witnessed terrible things.  He was leaning forward in a chair by her bedside, his book having slipped unnoticed to the floor.  He reached over and brushed her hair back from her forehead, still speaking in that comforting tone.  "I'm here with you, Beegee.  We're all here.  You're safe…you're safe."  

            _Why does he keep telling me I'm safe?  Oh, God, what happened to me?  She fixed her eyes on Dick's earnest grey ones, "Dick, what happened?  Why am I in the hospital?"  _

            Dick's brow furrowed.  "You don't remember?"  

            She started to shake her head, then immediately thought better of it as pain exploded.  "No," she said, wincing.

            "I wouldn't move my head abruptly if I were you,"  

            "Gee, Dick, thanks for the advice."

            He flashed her that wry half-grin of his.  "Don't mention it."  He glanced around, "Your Dad will want to know you're awake.  We've been taking it in turns sitting up with you.  He's sleeping in the family lounge.  I'll go get him."   He rose and started to turn, but she grabbed his hand, stopping him, pulling him over to sit on the edge of her bed.  

            "Dick, what happened to me?"

            Worry and uncertainty flooded his sensitive face.  Dick had never been able to hide his feelings from her or anyone else.  Perhaps that was the very trait which made them all trust him so much.  He was everyone's confidant, the one you could count on to listen and understand.  He exuded empathy.  If you had to have bad news, it helped if Dick was the one who broke it to you.  

            "Tell me."

            "Maybe your father should…"

            "_Tell me.  I'd rather hear it from you."  _

            He sighed.  "Barbara, the doctor gave very specific instructions about not overwhelming you with information the second you woke up.  Your dad and Bruce reinforced that directive in no uncertain terms."

            Green eyes flashed as she gave him a _look_.  "If you don't tell me what happened _right now, when I get out of this bed, I will give you an ass-kicking that will make anything Bruce could do to you seem like patty-cake."  She grinned, then, "You know I can, too!"  _

            He choked and looked away, not wanting her to see the sudden tears which flooded his eyes.  She wouldn't be kicking his ass or anything else ever again.  Those days were over.

            "Dick?"  Her voice was soft.  "What is it, love?  What's wrong?"

            With a valiant effort, Dick got hold of himself.  It wouldn't do for him to fall apart right now—not now, when Barbara needed him to be strong.  For a long moment, he kept his face averted, willing his grief to recede.  When he turned back to her, his eyes held only affection and compassion, with just a hint of the grief which lurked within him.  He made a stab at lighthearted banter:  "Sorry, Barbie-doll, it's been a long couple of days."

            She playfully smacked his arm.  "Now, I really am going to kick your ass.  You know better than to call me that!"  His eyes lit up for an instant as he once again gave her that lopsided grin.  Then, the grin faded as he sized her up.  Barbara could see the struggle he was having with himself.  She cleared her throat and began to speak, using the quiet tone she had learned from him.  

            "Dick, it's obvious to me that something terrible has happened that put me here.  I may not be able to remember it, but I can still figure out that much at least.  Whatever has happened, I need you to tell me.  I can bear it, I promise you.  What I cannot bear is not being in the know.  You know me well enough to know that what frightens me most is not having control over my own destiny.  I need to know what has happened to me.  It's the only way I can start to deal with it.  I need to deal with things my own way, in my own time—not when other people think I'm ready.  Please, Dick—we've always been honest with each other.   I trust you.  Whatever it is I can deal with it, because I know I can count on you."

            His expressive, grey eyes filled again, "Wouldn't it be better for you to hear it from your Dad, or the Doctors, or Bruce?"

            She reached up and stroked his face.  "I'd rather hear it from you.  You…you _understand me, Dick.  You've never tried to overprotect me—from the truth, or anything else."  _

            He nodded and swallowed, his mind made up.  "It…it's bad."  

            Green eyes held grey, "I know."  Dick reached over and took both of her hands.

            "It was the Joker, Barbara.  He took his revenge, tonight—and you weren't his only victim.  He had Selena Kyle killed."

            "_No," breathed Barbara, "Oh no—poor Bruce."  Her eyes flooded with tears of compassion for her mentor.  _

            Dick nodded, "And then, he came after you."  Barbara became very quiet, scarcely breathing.  Dick continued, "He—there's no easy way to say this, Beegee—he raped you."  Her heart felt as though it were being squeezed by an enormous fist.  Dick's eyes still held hers.  He ran his fingers through his hair.  "There's more…"  She nodded, taking his hand again, giving him permission to continue.  He swallowed.  "You were shot.  The bullet entered your abdomen, low, and passed through your spine."  

            Barbara's blood went cold.  "Meaning…"

            "Meaning it partially severed your spinal cord."   Barbara was completely silent.  "It was low enough that you still have bowel and bladder control and can move your hips to shift your weight.  They were able to repair your intestines, but the damage to your reproductive system was irreversible—you'll never be able to have children.  And your legs…"  He choked, and could not continue.  

            Fear coursed through Barbara's soul, making her voice sharper than she intended. "I will be able to walk, right?"  

            He closed his eyes to hide the pain. "No."  

            "But, you said partially severed.  That means there could be hope that…"

            He opened his eyes and let her see the grief and compassion they held.  "No."

            Barbara wasn't aware that she was crying until Dick reached over and wiped her tears.  Kicking off his shoes, he climbed onto the bed and gently maneuvered himself so that her head was cradled in his lap.  The tenderness of the gesture released the tears, and she broke down completely and sobbed into the crook of his arm.  Tears coursing silently down his cheeks, Dick stroked her hair and held her until, exhausted and spent, she finally dropped off.      

  



	3. Ward of the State

**All of the characters and story lines and everything else I can think of are the property of DC comics and the WB network.  The only bits that're mine are the words and the voice.    **

**Chapter 3:  ****Ward**** of the State**

            The friction of the rug against her face left a spot on her cheek that stung.  Helena ignored the stinging and struggled harder against her captors to no avail.  It was to date the most humiliating moment of her entire life.  The one consolation was that this happened often enough around here that the other kids were mostly just going about their business without taking much notice—except, of course, for a handful who were making no secret about taking an enormous amount of satisfaction from seeing Helena Kyle taken down a peg or two.  Helena's face burned, and she grunted and snarled as she struggled. 

            "Easy.  Take it easy, Helena.  No one is going to hurt you.  Settle down, now.  Take it easy."  James, one of her houseparents, straddled her back, using all his strength to hold Helena's arms straight out and palms-up against the floor.  In this position, Helena couldn't get the leverage she needed to break free.  

            "God, she's a strong one."  Tony was having less luck holding her feet as she flailed and kicked.  "Take it easy, Helena.  Settle down." 

            "Looks like it's going to be a long night."  Karen, the night administrator, squatted next to Helena's head, monitoring her breathing.  "Come on, Helena, relax.  Stop fighting.  Settle down, now.  You're okay."  She glanced up to see three or four smirking teenagers looking on.  "Miguel, Benjamin, Dominique…the rest of you—this isn't a side show.  Get to your rooms."  The kids didn't move.  Karen looked around and spotted a houseparent from a different unit.  "Becky, could you please round up some staff to clear the hallway?  The audience is making it worse."   

            Within minutes, the hallway was clear of kids, and Helena, worn out from struggling and now not needing to impress anyone, was slowly beginning to settle down.  Her fight, after all, was not with her houseparents.  She liked them okay—and anyway, she could see that they couldn't just let her try to kill other kids without doing anything to stop it.  

            "That's it.  Good girl.  You're okay.  Take a deep breath."  Karen soothed.  Helena took several shuddering breaths and allowed her tense muscles to go limp.  "You calm?  Can we let you up, now?"  

            "Yeah." 

            "You won't take a swing at one of us the minute you're up?"

            "No."  

            "That's a relief," laughed James.  "Dang, kid—you're a real fighter."  He grinned at her as she got to her feet, and she almost caught herself responding in kind.  She quickly repressed the urge…it wouldn't do to learn to like him.  Besides, he had just completely humiliated her in front of a whole lot of people.  Remembering this, she scowled.

            Karen steered her toward her office.  James followed.  Inside, James and Helena sat in the chairs in front of Karen's desk and Karen rolled the desk chair out from behind the desk for herself.  

            "So…what was that about?"

            Helena glowered.  "Nothing."

            "Right.  Nothing.  You jump on Robert and start beating him senseless, and it's about nothing.  Wrong answer.  Try again."

            Helena squirmed.

            "I'm waiting."

            "He said something," she admitted in a low voice.

             "What did he say?"

            Helena could feel the anger bubbling up again.  It was so unfair.  Robert was the one who started it, and she was the one in trouble.  "He said something about my mother."

            Karen looked at her with real sympathy.  "You miss her."  

            That caught her off guard.  She'd been expecting the "No matter what he says, it still doesn't make it okay to beat him up and now there will be consequences" lecture.  To her horror, she felt tears well in her eyes and her throat constrict.  She sniffed and scowled—_damned if I'm going to let this lady get to me.   Narrowing her eyes, she glanced away and used her toughest voice to answer.  "Yeah, so?"  _

            "So, anger's a normal part of grief, Helena."   

            Helena dropped her head and scowled ferociously at the tops of her shoes.  

            "Look at me, please, Helena."  

            Helena kept her eyes riveted on her shoes.  Karen allowed several moments to pass in silence, waiting to be obeyed.  Unable to hold out any longer, Helena at last looked up.  Karen and James were both gazing at her with eyes filled with concern.  Karen leaned forward, "We know you're hurting.  We want to help you, child, but we can't unless you let us.  Won't you let us?"

            For a split second, all of the emotions boiled to the surface.  Helena longed to throw herself into those comforting arms and sob out all of the grief and confusion that she'd kept bottled up ever since…ever since…  With a supreme effort, she regained her self control and looked quickly away, scowling as fiercely as she could.  "Leave me the hell alone!"

            Karen's eyes met James'.  She sighed.  Right.  They needed more time to earn the girl's trust.  She'd only been at the Northside Christian Children's Home for two weeks, after all.  She just hoped they could do it before Helena's anger took her over and she did something she couldn't undo.  "As you wish.  You may go back to your unit."

            Helena got to her feet.  "What's my punishment going to be?"  You really wouldn't have guessed that Helena's sullen, defiant tone masked a world of hurt and fear.  The poor kid was so afraid to learn to care for anyone, she was practically begging to be punished so that she could have a reason to keep her hate and resentment alive.  Karen wasn't going to give it to her.

            "I sentence you to a good night's sleep and a fresh start in the morning," she said lightly.  Helena stared.   James steered her toward the door, suppressing the urge to exchange a grin with Karen.  

            "Oh, and Helena?"

            "Yeah?"

            "Make no mistake:  Do this again, and there will be major consequences."

            "Yes ma'am."               

            Helena made up her mind that she'd better run away that night.  These people were way too damn kind.  If she wasn't careful, next thing she knew, she'd be letting them in.  The last thing she needed was to get all attached.    


	4. Anger

**All of the characters and story lines and everything else I can think of are the property of DC comics and the WB network.  The only bits that're mine are the words and the voice.    **

**Chapter 4:  Anger**

            "_Thirty-eight.  Thirty-niiiiine, Fourrr--unnnph!  Damn!"  Barbara's chest smacked the floor, hard.  She lay, panting on the mat, sweat pooling beneath her.  A towel sailed through the air and landed on top of her head, falling over her face.  _

            "Don't get so frustrated.  Your strength's coming back way faster than anyone expected."  Dick's light footsteps stopped at her side.  "Come on—dry off.  It's time to call it quits.  You can work out again, tomorrow.  We'll have you back to full strength in no time."

            Barbara muttered something beneath the towel.

            "Pardon?"

            _"I SAID, 'WHAT'S THE DAMN POINT?'"  She snarled.  _

            Dick was silent.  She felt his sympathy.  It only served to make her angrier.  She didn't want his damn sympathy.  She didn't want him pushing her all the time.  She didn't want him around every blessed minute, reminding her every damn second of what she'd lost, reminding her of what she'd never be.  She didn't want him looking at her, touching her, _helping her._  

            In more rational moments, she felt horrible about the way she'd been treating Dick these past five months.  He'd been so kind, so supportive.  He'd dried her tears.  He'd listened.  He'd cared.  He'd comforted her as she began to deal with her returning memories of what had happened to her at the hands of the Joker.  She wouldn't have made it through her father's funeral without him, nor the grieving afterward.  He'd encouraged her through the difficult, painful rehab, and he'd helped her find this great loft at the top of  New Gotham's clocktower and to re-learn to care for herself.  

            She was just so angry.  So angry.  _So angry!!!!_  And all of the anger within her was raging, straining to be unleashed, to hurt, to wound, to make someone else feel as miserable as she was feeling.   And the only someone else around was Dick.  Besides Alfred, of course, but she just couldn't imagine taking anything out on Alfred.  Alfred was just so…English.  Dick, on the other hand…     

            It made her furious that he was so nice to her all the time.  How dare he be nice?  He made her feel like an invalid, treating her feelings with kid gloves, being all sympathetic and kind.  What did he know about pain?  He led a charmed life, Dick Grayson:   ward of Bruce Wayne, the multi-billionaire, secret superhero Nightwing, able to fight crime and do any number of acrobatic stunts.  His life was happy and fulfilled.  

            In her heart of hearts, she knew better.  Dick was no stranger to pain.  He had been orphaned as a boy before Bruce had taken him in, and he always carried the mark of that terrible grief in the back of his eyes.  And, she knew his heart was just about breaking ever since he'd found the letter from Bruce the week after the Joker had taken his terrible revenge.  Bruce had been broken by those events. So used to being strong, he couldn't handle the grief and the shame of having been unable to protect those he loved.   He had given up, left, abandoned them.    

            Barbara wasn't sure if she would ever be able to forgive the bastard--or her father, for that matter—for abandoning her right when she needed them more than she'd ever needed anyone in her life.  

            Snatching the towel off of her head, Barbara silently dried herself off, threw down her towel, and flipped herself expertly into her chair.  Her prison.  Smacking off the brake, she wheeled around and headed for the shower.  

            Dick watched her go, perplexed.  Could he really be losing her, too?  First his parents, then Bruce, now Barbara:  anyone he'd ever called family.  His growing sense of disconnection alarmed him.  Who was there left to turn to?  Where could he go with his own pain, his fear, his growing despair?  Was he doomed to the life of a lonely vigilante: fighting crime by night, leading an unfulfilled, loveless existence by day?  A lifetime of empty, orphaned existence stretched before him like a forgotten road through the desert.  

            Sighing dejectedly, he bent over and picked up the towel and placed it gently in the laundry bin.  Everyone seemed to be better off without him.  Maybe it was time…


	5. Survival

**All of the characters and story lines and everything else I can think of are the property of DC comics and the WB network.  The only bits that're mine are the words and the voice.    **

**Chapter 5:  Survival**

            Helena crouched in the shadow of a dumpster, trying to gauge her pursuit by the sounds echoing on the adjoining street.  She considered her options.  The obvious choice would be to leap up and make her escape over the rooftops, but that would be no challenge at all.  She might steal food and clothing out of necessity, but that didn't mean she couldn't have any fun in the process.  Outsmarting store security personnel—this was what made life sweet.   Helena dearly loved to watch them get all flustered and frustrated as she managed to keep just out of their reach.  There was one portly, pink-faced piggy of a guy over in the mall who practically gave birth to a moose every time he tried to capture her.  God, it was fun!  On the other hand, if they caught her, they'd probably stick her in Juvenile Detention.  Helena hated cages; her freedom was more precious to her than gold.  Sighing, she made the leap.  She'd play with the rent-a-cops another day. 

            She made her way over the rooftops toward home.  Home, these days, was a condemned six-flat overlooking pier 16 at 24th and Rollins…apartment 3 south.  Helena had asked around:  The owners were deceased.  The only heir was in a coma.  All three had been victims of an automobile accident about a year ago.  There wasn't much chance that they'd get around to selling or tearing down the building anytime soon.  

            Helena had never been very good at school, but she was pretty resourceful, as well as good with anything mechanical.  With a little help from the diagrams in a plumbing for dummies book (the words just confused her), she had managed to connect the water back up to the building.  This was a necessity.  She could—and did—live without electricity.  The apartment was equipped with a fireplace which served for warmth and cooking, and Helena also had the ability to see clearly in low-light conditions, as long as it wasn't completely pitch black.  Her m…it had run in the family.  She also had several lanterns and candles, which served for when she wanted a little more light.  Water, however, she could not do without.  Helena had always been fastidious about her appearance, and the present circumstances had not changed that.  Showers were a must.  So was a functioning toilet and sink. 

            She had at first regretted the hasty decision to go AWOL from the children's home.  She'd been acting, as usual, on impulse, driven by her confusion and fear.  All she had known at the time had been that she mustn't allow those people to get under her skin.  Caring about people was stupid.  You were just asking to get your heart ripped out when they…if something should…anyway, it was stupid.  She was better off on her own.  Still, the first couple months had been hard.  She'd been hungry, cold, and frightened nearly all the time.  She'd had no idea there could be so much evil in the world, before she'd lived on the streets.

            She'd managed, somehow, by sheer luck, to avoid all the traps which ensnared most kids caught out on their own in the underworld of New Gotham.  Some, like drugs, she'd known better than to get caught in.  It wasn't that she hadn't wanted the escape.  Lord knew she'd have tried almost anything if it would have abated the agony which roiled her soul, threatening to burst out at any time.  She was canny enough to understand, however, that once you started using a controlled substance, it would soon control you…and then anyone could control you.  It was a ploy that drug dealers and pimps used all the time—giving "free" samples "out of the goodness of their hearts."  It amazed her that anyone would not see through that scheme.  You didn't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that there were ulterior motives involved.  Helena usually figured, if somebody wants to convince you to do something that is obviously harmful, illegal, or wrong, you have to ask yourself, "What's in it for them?"  You usually didn't have to look too hard to find the answer to that.  

            Other traps, she'd escaped by the skin of her teeth.  After several frightening narrow escapes from some of the lewd older gentlemen who prowled the New Gotham underworld preying on the forgotten, she'd met Trey, an older teen who had seemed knowledgeable and street smart.  He'd sort of taken her under his wing, showing her some of the tricks of surviving life on the streets and letting her crash at his place, while at the same time, not trying to get close to her on an emotional level.  She could live with that—or she'd been able to until he'd begun to insist that she earn her keep.  Thank God for her unusual abilities—that was the only thing that had kept her from being a rape victim—or worse.  

            _It goes to show, she thought, __there's no free lunch.                       _

            Helena refused to think of her…other life, ever.  Remembering gentler, happier days hurt too much.  Surrounded daily as she was by the harshest and ugliest parts of human existence that life could dish out, she had begun to forget that life even held things like tenderness, compassion, love.  As she'd begun to acclimate to her new life, she'd also begun to rely more and more on her animal-like abilities, and increasingly, they had begun to define her, until sometimes it seemed as if the person who had once been Helena Kyle barely even existed anymore.  Sometimes, she really wondered if that girl had been lost forever. 


	6. Despair

**All of the characters and story lines and everything else I can think of are the property of DC comics and the WB network.  The only bits that're mine are the words and the voice.    **

**Chapter 6:  Despair**

            He should have killed her.

            He should have gone ahead and finished her off.  He should have taken that damn gun and put another bullet into her brain.  He'd nearly done it.  She remembered the cold steel of the barrel pressed against her temple, the maniacal laughter, her certainty that this was her last moment.  Silently, she'd cried out within her soul with every fiber of her being, willing someone, anyone, to hear her, to save her.  

            Then, he'd changed his mind.  "Breaking you will be more fun than killing you," he'd decided, chortling.  Snatching up her half-full wine glass, he'd sipped it, leering at her, "A romantic evening by the fire," he'd jeered, "what a perfect end to your life."  

            Then, he'd gone about the business of breaking her, and a masterful job he'd done of it.  The rape had been the least of it.  The psychological games he'd played with her had been far more devastating.  He had made her helpless, weak.  He'd forced her to beg for mercy and to choose between horrific tortures.  He'd taken polaroids of everything he'd done to her, then forced her to view them, while gleefully constructing imaginary scenarios of the reactions of Bruce, her father, all of her loved ones when they would view them, later.  And, show them, he had.  Then he'd left her alive, knowing that death would have been a mercy.

            Her shame had been unbearable.  

            But she could have survived all of it.  She could have recovered and gone on.  Except, he took from her the one thing that would have made it possible for her to endure.  He took Batgirl.      

            Barbara sighed despondently as she overlooked the city from the balcony of the clocktower.  What was the point of working out all the time to regain her strength?  What was the point of learning to function in this damn chair?  She didn't want to learn to live with a wheelchair; she wanted to die.  Really, she had died.  She was nothing, nobody.  Batgirl had been more than a secret identity; she'd been Barbara—the real, authentic Barbara—the best part of who she was.  The Barbara Gordon everyone else knew was a fake, a mask, a façade constructed to protect the richness and depth of what had been hidden behind it.  

            And now, the riches were gone and she was left with the façade, the empty shell.  Without Batgirl, who was Barbara Gordon?  

            Shells were meant to be discarded.  Their sole value was to protect their contents.  Remove the contents, and what did you have left?  

            What was left was fit only to grace a landfill.  

            What was the point of that?


	7. The Rescue

**All of the characters and story lines and everything else I can think of are the property of DC comics and the WB network.  The only bits that're mine are the words and the voice.    **

**Chapter 7:  The Rescue**

            She could see only eyes—hard, desperate eyes.  The rest of the face was obscured by a ski mask.  With all the courage she could muster up, she thrust her son behind her to protect him from the blunt muzzle pointed in their direction and addressed the man:  "Wh—what do you want?  

            He snorted derisively, "What the hell do you think I want, Lady?  Take off those earrings and that necklace.  Put them in the purse.  Then, hand over the purse nice and easy.  Nobody makes any stupid moves, nobody gets hurt."  He grinned, then, lips moving under the mask, "See?  I'm really a nice guy."

            She bit back a reply.  Fear made her sarcastic, and sarcasm was not the better part of wisdom just now.  Trying to control the shaking of her hands, she moved to comply.  One of the earrings dropped to the ground.

            "Stupid Bitch!"  He struck her face hard with his free hand, momentarily stunning her. "Pick it up!"  

            Shaking, she complied, murmuring to her whimpering son, "It's all right, Honey.  Mama's all right.  It'll be over soon."  

            It happened so fast, she never even saw it coming.  Neither did he.  One minute, he was standing over her with the gun—the next, he was flat on his back, gun skittering across the broken pavement, with a medium-tall man in black and blue leather kneeling on his chest.  The man had him by the throat.

            "Who the hell are you," managed the gunman.  

            "Who, me?  Let's see…how about…_your worst nightmare," the black and blue fellow snarled.  The gunman reached for an empty vodka bottle lying nearby and clocked him with it, then pitched his body sideways, slamming the man against a wall and breaking his hold.  Both men leaped to their feet, circling each other.  The boy whimpered, frightened, and his mother wrapped her arms around him, huddling against a dumpster for cover.  Black and Blue glanced at them, eyes kind behind his mask.  "Don't be afraid, kid—I'm here to protect you."  _

            The gunman charged him.  The boy cried out.  The man in black made a graceful leap, somersaulting over the robber and landing behind him, twisting his arm up behind his back and slamming him against the rough, brick wall of a building.  He then used what appeared to be a judo move to slam the guy facedown on the ground.  Whipping out a thin line, the man in black hogtied him.  He stood over his captive for a long moment, fiddling with what appeared to be his watch.  

            The boy's eyes were huge.  Turning, the man approached the pair slowly, palms open, speaking quietly.  "It's all right.  I won't hurt you.  You're safe, now.  Are you all right?  Did he hurt you?"

            The woman relaxed.  It was all right—she could see it in this guy's eyes.  He was sincere.  She slowly got to her feet, one arm around her small son.  "No, he didn't hurt us.  We're okay."  

            "You sure?"  The man indicated her eye, which was already swelling.

            "Yeah.  Oh, yeah…you shoulda seen the other guy."  

            The man twinkled at her appreciatively.  "I must say, you're pretty tough."

            "Hey, I have seven kids—all boys.  This was nothing."

            He laughed.  "My hat's off to you, then."  He looked, then at the boy.  "It was pretty scary, wasn't it," he asked, gently.  The boy's eyes filled with tears and he hung his head.  The man knelt, "What's your name?"  .

            "Teddy."

            "Nice to meet you, Teddy.  I'm Nightwing."  The man's easygoing, lopsided grin was contagious, and after a moment, the boy grinned unsteadily back, hesitantly shaking the offered hand.  Nightwing looked him in the eye. "You did exactly the right thing back there, Teddy.  You should always stay quiet and not make any sudden moves when somebody's got a gun on you.  You did exactly right.  You probably saved your mother's life, and your own, too."  He straightened.  "You should be proud of yourself."  

            The woman looked at Nightwing gratefully.  "Thanks," she said, softly.  "I mean, thanks for saving us, but also…"  She indicated Teddy with her head.  

            Nightwing shrugged, "Kids tend to feel responsible," he said, offhandedly.  "You might want to think about some counseling if he has any trouble getting past it."  His compassionate, grey eyes met hers, "Or you."  He glanced down at his wrist, appearing to check his watch.   "I've contacted the police.  They're on their way.  You'll need to make a statement."

            She nodded.  Nightwing bounded gracefully to the top of the dumpster, then leaped to catch the lowest rung of a fire-escape ladder several yards up the side of one of the buildings.  He swung back and forth several times, gaining momentum, then launched himself almost directly upward, turning a backflip in mid air, landing solidly on the fire escape and climbing to the top.  He leaned over the side and grinned.  "See ya."  She watched him flip through the air and disappear over the edge of the roof as the squad cars pulled into the alley.  

            On an adjoining rooftop, Helena considered what she had witnessed.  It was not the first time she had watched this Nightwing guy save someone's ass.  He intrigued her.  She wondered why he patrolled the city each weekend, helping unfortunate victims of violence and crime.  What was in it for him?  Money?  Power?  Sex?  He had to have some ulterior motive.  People always did.  

            She'd taken to surreptitiously shadowing him on the nights he was around, trying to find the pattern which would give her the clue to his motivation.  She never found it.  Occasionally, he would check up on someone he had helped, as if to assure himself that they were all right, but he never resumed contact with them, so she could rule out money and sex as possible motivations.  She could eliminate power, too.  She'd watched him fight enough that she could tell he wasn't getting his thrills from kicking people around.  On the contrary, he was almost gentle with his opponents, certainly winning his fights, but never using unnecessary force or resorting to brutality—and she'd never seen him give in to the temptation to kill anyone—even when the creeps deserved it.  He merely defeated them and handed them over to the cops, not even sticking around to take any credit.  It didn't make sense.                  

            She was fascinated.  This guy would certainly bear watching.


	8. Faithful Are The Wounds

**All of the characters and story lines and everything else I can think of are the property of DC comics and the WB network.  The only bits that're mine are the words and the voice.    **

**Chapter 8:  Faithful Are The Wounds of a Friend**

            **_"EVERYTHING IS NOT A_****_LWAY_****_S A_****_BOUT_****_ YOU, _****_B_****_ARBA_****_RA_****_,"_ he roared at the very top of his lungs, **_"SO, FUCKING GET OVER YOURSELF!"_**  **

            A shocked silence reigned as the echoes died away in the large workout room.  He was as astonished as she was.  They stared at each other, frozen, each unable to break the highly charged stillness which had fallen between them. 

            She blinked.  It released him.  He continued, bitterly, angrily, "Do you think you're the only one who's hurting?  Do you think you're the only one whose life is falling apart?"

            Whether out of astonishment or wisdom, she remained silent. 

            "How _dare you give up!  You don't have the right!  You don't have the right to take yourself out of the game!   He barely recognized his own anguished, ragged voice.  It seemed to belong to someone else.  He stalked over and slumped down on a bench, leaning his head back against the wall.  _

            "You don't have the right to leave me all alone…I'm all alone."  It was almost a sob.  She rolled closer to where he sat, facing him.  Her hand reached out instinctively in comfort.  He flinched away, "Don't."

            She faltered, "I just…"

            "Shut up," he interrupted, rudely, "You don't get to talk, now." 

            Without breaking their gaze, she pulled back and folded her hands in her lap, giving him space to continue, even knowing that his words would wound.  He loved her for it.   

            He continued, with passion, yet more gently, "I'm sorry—I'm so sorry that you can't walk anymore.  I'm sorry you can no longer patrol the streets as Batgirl.  I hate it with every fiber of my being.  I wish with all my heart that it could be different.  But wishing isn't going to change it, Barbara.  Wanting won't change a fact.  You'll never be what you once were."

            Her breath hissed in pain.  The hurt in her eyes was tangible.  He continued, mercilessly, saying what he knew needed to be said, the words only a friend could say.

            "You can sit here and feel sorry for yourself for the rest of your life.  You can rage at the unfairness of it until the very end of your days.  But it won't change the truth.  You will never, ever be Batgirl again.  All the raging and the crying and the sulking you can do will never be able to change it.  Ever.  Batgirl is dead."

            She slapped him.  Hard.   "You're out of line," she snapped, green eyes flashing dangerously.

            He wasn't backing down.  "Slapping me won't change it either.  Making me shut up won't change it.  Refusing to listen to it won't change it.  You can refuse to accept it right up until your last dying day, and the fact will still remain that Batgirl is no more." 

            She was speechless.  He pressed the advantage, "There comes a time when you have to make a choice.  You can choose to give up, to live your life in sullen bitterness, lamenting forever what once was.  Or, you can choose to redefine yourself, to play to your strengths, to grow and develop in new and equally challenging directions, to become everything you're capable of being—maybe even doing things the woman who was Batgirl would never have been capable of.  

            "There is a whole world of people out there who need what you've got to offer.  Are you going to deny it to them?  Are you going to allow evil and violence and despair to continue thriving in the world unchecked, simply because you're angry that you can't walk?

            "The time has come to make a choice.  You can take the easy road and give up if you like.  Or you can do the hard work of redefining yourself and your calling.  The choice is up to you.  But I have to say—The Barbara Gordon I've always admired wouldn't wuss out.  She wouldn't give up.  And I've got to tell you, if that's the road you choose, then my friend, Barbara Gordon, that courageous, feisty woman who used to take on every challenge, well, she dies, too.  And if Barbara Gordon dies, I really will be all alone in this world, and I honestly don't think I will be able to bear it."

            She maintained a silence he couldn't read.  He rose to leave, knowing that she needed space to process what he had said.  At the door, he turned, pleading, his voice low:  "I need you, Beegee.  Everyone thinks I'm strong, but what you have all failed to realize is that it was all of you, my family, who made me strong.  Without you, all I am is an orphan."  One tear squeezed out of each eye and dropped straight down his face.  "I'm just an orphan," he whispered, brokenly, and with that, he turned and left.


	9. Connection

**All of the characters and story lines and everything else I can think of are the property of DC comics and the WB network.  The only bits that're mine are the words and the voice.    **

**Chapter 9:  Connection**

            Helena couldn't believe her eyes.  He was crying.  For half an hour, he'd been sitting over there on the roof of the warehouse sobbing into his mask as though his heart was breaking.  

            What in hell could break a guy like him?

            For the first time in ages, she felt the stirrings of emotion within her soul.  She ventured nearer, indecision warring within her.  She shouldn't be doing this.  It was just…it seemed like being alone was killing him.  

            His sobs subsided.  Heaving an enormous sigh, he looked up.  Their eyes met.  She froze.  

            After a long moment, he spoke, shifting his gaze to the skyline, his tone low and gentle, yet a bit wry.  "You can relax.  I'm not really in the mood to eat any kids for dinner, tonight."

            She responded in kind to the wry tone of his voice.  "That's a relief.  I hate being dinner.  Ruins my whole evening."  

            He raised an eyebrow.  "I don't really think mine could get much worse," he admitted, keeping his tone light.  "Of course, I've never actually been dinner, so really, it's hard to know."     

            "Girl trouble?"

            "Something like that, yeah."  He glanced over and grinned wryly.  "Actually, I just screamed at a friend to 'f—ing get over herself.'  You know…sensitive and compassionate.  Women love that."  

            "Oh, yeah—Lord knows I do."  The sarcastic look on her face was priceless.  In spite of his pain, he grinned for real and snorted, shaking his head.  He could see that it pleased her to have been able to make him feel a little better.  It warmed his heart. 

            "I should probably go apologize."

            "Did she deserve it?"

            He looked back at the skyline.  "Yeah, she kinda did."  

            "Maybe she needs to be the one to apologize."  

            He considered that.  

            "Of course, you know, there's nothing sexier than a man groveling all over the place with a big old red nose and puffy eyes.  Personally, I find it a really big turn-on."

            He had to laugh at that.  "You're right.  I'm being an idiot.  I need to give her time to come to her senses."   

            "You'll see.  It'll be all romance and lovey-dovey music in no time.  Nothing more romantic than making up."

            He laughed again.  "Naw, you got it wrong, kid.  We're not…I mean…she's not my girlfriend.  I mean, not that I'd mind…but I don't think she'd ever see me that way.  At least, I don't think…I mean, I love her—more than I've ever loved anyone—but we're just friends, you know?  I mean, we've known each other for years, dated other people…"  _Whoa, whoa…I don't owe this kid all these defensive explanations!  What's up with that?_

            "For someone who's not your girlfriend, she's sure under your skin," Helena observed.

            "She's…all the family I've got." 

            "Least you've got some."  Helena's voice held just a hint of wistfulness.

            He looked at her with compassion, "It's tough to have no one."  He could have kicked himself when she immediately looked threatened and shut down.  _Responds negatively to attempts at forming an emotional connection._  He filed it away for future reference.  "Sorry, kid—I didn't mean…"

            " 'S okay.  Look, I gotta jet."  She moved quickly away, across the roof.  

            "Hey, Kid," he called.  She turned.  "Thanks."  She gave him a grin and disappeared from sight, leaving him to his thoughts.     

            He'd seen the kid before.  He had spotted her a few times while he was patrolling, and it had soon become obvious to him that she was following him.  She'd always kept her distance, though, and any attempts to make contact had resulted in her skittish disappearance.  She reminded him of a wild, half-grown panther cub they'd had at the circus he'd traveled with when he'd been a kid.  He sensed that same curiosity and longing for contact mingled with skittish fear and fierce independence.  

            Dick had tamed that panther.  It had taken months and months of patience and perseverance, but he'd done it.  He'd earned its trust.  He'd been the only one in the whole circus who could go near it.

            His parents had been acrobats, fearless performers on the wire and trapeze, and Dick had trained with them almost from the moment he could walk, but as long as he could remember, he had spent every spare moment of his childhood hanging around the tents of the animal trainers.  It had soon become obvious that this was where his true giftedness lay.  He understood the secrets of getting an animal to trust him, no matter how wild or frightened it was.  He could tame any creature.  

            The secret was in remaining very quiet, never making sudden movements, betraying anxiety, taking direct notice of them, or threatening them in any way.  You offered something the creature needed—usually food, placing it within the animal's comfort zone, then gradually moving it so that it was necessary for the animal to move closer and closer in order to obtain it.  You studied its body language and made every attempt to match yours to it.  You kept your voice low and reassuring, your movements gentle and fluid, and you took every opportunity to allow the animal to become used to your presence, providing as many opportunities as possible for the animal to witness your gentle treatment of other animals who trusted you.  And, above all, you let the animal make all the proximity decisions.  You never, ever moved in on its space or tried to trap it.  If an animal suspected for one second that you intended to invade its space or take its freedom, all your work would be for nothing.  

            The most rewarding moment of his life had been the day that young panther had curled itself in the crook of his arm and slept.  He'd never forgotten it.  

            Dick had found that there was little difference between earning the trust of animals and gaining that of humans.  Oh, sure, you didn't put food out for people and wait for them to come.  Human trust operated on an emotional level, not a physical one.  Humans responded to compassion and understanding—needed it like food to survive.  The secret, once again, was to learn to read the body language and to never, ever invade someone's space or betray a confidence.  You had to let people decide for themselves how much they wanted to open up, and they needed to be able to test if they opened up to you a little, that you wouldn't move in on them, or use what they said against them, or tell other people. 

            Trust was the most precious gift you could be given.  Dick prized it above all else.

            Tending bar in the nearby city of Bludhaven was a good occupation for him.  A bartender had to be a good listener—had to be able to earn trust and keep it—particularly when your patrons worked in law enforcement and criminal justice.   In order to be able to patrol at night, he worked the day shift, which was usually, in the bartending world, a sucky shift with lousy tips.  Dick had lucked out, though; this particular bar was directly across the street from police headquarters and a block away from the courthouse.  Police officers worked round the clock, which meant that the bar during his shift was frequented by officers who were coming off the graveyard shift, and this made for some decent tippage.  The bar was also a popular place for the courthouse crowd to hang out at lunchtime, though he had found that they didn't tend to be as generous in the tip department as the cops.  It was a great place for a vigilante/bartender to pick up crimefighting tips, as well as being a wonderful fit with Dick's tendency to be a listener.  He loved his job.      

            He probably should have sought a career in counseling—but that would have required years of school.  Dick loved to read and was plenty smart, but he absolutely loathed school.  That was Barbara's world…seemed like ever since he'd known her, she'd been effortlessly earning degree after degree after degree—Education, Law, Electrical Engineering, Computer Science, Chemistry, Physics...She loved it.  Damn, that girl was all kinds of smart.  Seemed like there ought to be some way she could use all that brain power to further the crimefighting cause, legs or no legs.  Hmm…the idea had merit.  That was up to her, though.

            The best course of action would probably be to give Babs enough space to figure out what she needed to do.  He'd had his say—now, he needed to let it go.  He realized he wasn't really worried, anymore.  He'd thrown down a challenge, and if there was one thing Barbara couldn't resist, it was a challenge.  She'd come around.

            In the meantime, that wild cub of a girl had managed to pull him out of his despondency by tossing him a challenge of his own.  Kid that age shouldn't be on her own in the world—especially if she had metahuman abilities, as he suspected.  Life was tough for metas, and it was too easy to fall into the traps of the criminal underworld.  Damned if he was going to let her become an agent of the dark side of New Gotham.  Kid had a good heart—he could sense it.  Could be, he could help her learn to trust—maybe even be for her what Bruce had been for him.   

            He aimed to tame that kid. 


	10. Awakening

**All of the characters and story lines and everything else I can think of are the property of DC comics and the WB network.  The only bits that're mine are the words and the voice.    **

**Chapter 10:  Awakening**

            Barbara had never felt so ashamed in her life.

            At first, she'd been simply furious.  How dare he talk to her that way!  Who was he to scold her like she was some naughty four-year old!  She'd pounded the punching bags with her kali sticks until her fingers had gone numb.  Then, she'd rolled herself back and forth across the gym, which had just exacerbated her frustration, because she couldn't even pace right.  Then, she'd gone at the bags with the kali sticks again until she'd been drooping with exhaustion.  After that, she'd thrown herself out of her chair and onto the mat, sobbing until she'd had no tears left, until all she had been able to do was lie there making dry, hiccupping sounds.  Finally, she'd dragged herself into her chair and tumbled into bed without even bothering to change, where she'd fallen into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.

            Whether due to the fact that she hadn't been awakened during the night by any nightmares or whether she'd finally gotten out the worst of the emotional agony which had been squeezing her heart, she didn't know, but, she'd awoken the next morning refreshed for the first time since she'd been hurt.  She'd gotten a shower, made herself some tea, and then gone out to the balcony to enjoy the view while she sipped it.

            She had been out there at least five minutes before she realized that she was _enjoying the view.  How long had it been since she had enjoyed anything?_

            She spent a long time out there replaying Dick's words over and over again in her head--this time, without all the indignation and fury.  This time she heard his anguish, saw how close to despair he really was—had been for how long?  She had been so focused on her self pity, she'd completely missed it.  God, she was as bad as Bruce.  She'd abandoned her friend.  And then, she'd slapped him when he'd tried to tell her how much she'd hurt him.  

            She wondered if he would ever be able to forgive her.  

            It was somewhat a relief, though, to fight with him.  He was no longer molly-coddling her.  He wouldn't shout at her if he thought she was helpless and weak.  Ever since the attack, he'd been so considerate of her, so focused on her feelings.  It had been refreshing to hear him give voice to his own pain for a change.  Somehow, it gave her a sense of her own power back.  This time, it was her turn to be strong for him.  Providing he would speak to her, that is.  

            She really wasn't worried that lasting harm had been done to their friendship.  They'd been too close for too long to give up on each other.  She cringed at the thought of facing him, though.  She'd behaved like such an ass.  

            Dick was right.  It was time to grieve Batgirl and let her go, to deal with her pain and move on.  She'd been immobilized by her anger and her despair for too long—as though the nerves to her soul, as well as those to her legs, had been severed.  The legs could never be salvaged…the soul, on the other hand…this morning, for the first time, it seemed like, just maybe, she was getting a little bit of feeling back.  It hurt…it hurt like hell…but maybe the pain was a sign that the coldness which had gripped her for so many months was starting to wear off, finally.  

            It was time to start dealing with her feelings.  Maybe she'd even work up the nerve to see a therapist or check out that support group the hospital had recommended—start getting underneath all that icy, protective fury and begin dealing with what the anger had been protecting her from feeling:  the loss, the grief, the terror, the humiliation, the violation of her spirit.  It would take courage.  But one thing Barbara Gordon had never been short on was courage.  

            She felt the need to do something tangible to find closure, so she could move on…maybe she'd pop 'round to the church sometime soon and light a candle in Batgirl's memory.  Batgirl was dead.  To her surprise, Barbara was discovering that Barbara Gordon was not.  That richness, that life…perhaps it wasn't gone after all.  Perhaps that part of herself she'd thought dead was beginning to awaken, to form itself anew.  

            Time it was, to begin the process of moving on.  The past was past.  It was time to think about the future, now.  It was time to reclaim her identity…time to start to redefine her calling.          


	11. Story continued with different title

Hello, everyone!

            This Story is getting long, so I am splitting it up into segments.  

I am changing the name of this segment to: BEGINNINGS:  The Awakening.  

The second part of this story will be called:  BEGINNINGS 2:  The Taming of Helena Kyle.

I hope this doesn't confuse anyone.  It seemed better than having 87,462 chapters in the same story.  There will be several segments by the time I'm done.  Hope you enjoy 'em!

--SamIAm  (Evidently, I am now SamIAm4) 


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